A Fork in the Road
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: . . .and then he's in law school. Wait a minute, did we miss something there?


Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine; I am making no profit from this.

Rated: PG

Author's notes: Sure we all love the final episode, "A Chip off the Old Milt", in which we find out that Mark watches John Wayne movies even when Hardcastle isn't around, and he's not quite the 'motor head' he always referred to himself as. But, wait a minute, how can he be a closet first-year law student when he never went to college? Can we reconcile these facts without violating the time-space continuum? And which John Wayne movie was that, anyway?

A Fork in the Road

By L. M. Lewis

Behind the older model Volvo, doing 45, McCormick was fighting the urge to pass in a No Pass Zone. _You're already late; it probably won't help to run head-on into a truck around a blind curve._ He eased up and dropped back another couple of car lengths. Tuesday was _supposed_ to be Jazzmaster's night, not bust-some-extortionists-night, and it has taken some very fast talking just to get away as early as he had.

He glanced down at the paper on the front seat next to him. 08:00 pm TTh Rm 204 ATH HIS357--Org. Am. Law Prof. R. Sturgis. His watch said 7:45 and he was still twenty minutes away from campus. It would take another ten to park and find the room. He shook his head and took his foot off the accelerator. This was all pretty pointless when he thought about it, and being late for the first class seemed to be an omen. _There's a pull-off up there, just turn around and go back. At least there won't be a Jazzmaster's concert at home tonight. _

He tapped the brake and eased back, just as the rear right tire of the Volvo up ahead blew. He saw the car swerve onto the shoulder, catch some gravel and then overcompensate in the other direction and start to skid into the oncoming lane. _Stay off the brake, oh man, steer into it. _He found himself gripping the wheel of the Coyote and willing the other car away from the guardrail. _That's it._ The Volvo was back in it own lane and slowing down, just as a paneled van rounded the curve and whooshed past. The Volvo was on the shoulder now, thumping to a stop, and Mark pulled in behind it.

A frail-looking, elderly gentleman was getting out. It took him a moment to stand, then he was walking back along the length of the car, bracing himself against it as he went. Mark climbed out of the Coyote and met him halfway.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Ah, yes, I believe I am," the old man said, "but I see the tire is not." They were looking down at a full flat, the car listing slightly to the side.

"No problem," Mark shrugged, "as long as you have a spare."

He had his own jacket off and laid it on the hood of the Coyote, and was rolling up one sleeve already. He reached into his car and pulled out a floor-mat; Sarah would skin him if he came home with tar ground into the knees of a decent pair of pants. The old man had opened the trunk and was looking for the jack.

"There it is." Mark reached past him.

"You don't have to—I can call the motor club."

"Nah, take me maybe five minutes."

"Five?"

"Yeah, about, and where I come from, that's slow." McCormick flashed a smile as he put the jack in place and started pumping.

"I've seen that car of yours before, over by Judge Hardcastle's place? Are you--"

McCormick's smile became a little more strained. "Yes, I am." He picked up the lug wrench and went at the job with more energy than was required.

He knew there were people in the neighborhood who had made some rather pointed remarks to the judge about his choice of yardman. He also knew there were more than a few of the neighbors watching him carefully.

"Don't worry, I'm fully domesticated and I've had all my shots." He grinned up at the old guy as he dropped the last of the nuts into the hubcap and lifted the flat off.

"Well, now that'ssomething I've never seen before," McCormick laughed as he pried loose the thing embedded in the folds of rubber, and held it up for the other man. "And I know we're not anywhere near the Slauson cutoff."

The older man looked puzzled at this remark, and then took the object, consideringly.

"Good lord, that's not an eating utensil, it's a caltrop," he replied. It was Mark's turn to look blank. The man paused, "A medieval device strewn in roadways to injure the hooves of the enemies' horses."

"Ah, a caltrop . . . and the fork in the road is supposed to be right after the Slauson cutoff." Still drawing a blank. "Johnny Carson?"

"Ahh . . . that would be past my bedtime." The old man intoned solemnly and both men smiled.

Mark went back to the job at hand; he quickly had the spare in place and took down the jack. He lifted the flat into the trunk and glanced down at his watch.

"Oh no, 5 minutes 24 seconds, way off my best time. I'm losing my touch." Mark complained. The old man was reaching for his wallet. Mark looked up and shook his head. "We're neighbors, remember. You okay to drive?"

"I think so. Thank you--"

"No problem, just be careful." He tossed his jacket into the front seat of the Coyote and slid in behind the wheel.

It was only when was back out on the roadway that he realized he had missed the turn-around and, besides, if he went back now the old guy would wonder where the hell he'd been going in the first place. Fifteen minutes late or twenty, what difference did it make?

ooooo

He edged through the door of room 204, and into the back of the lecture hall. The murmur of voices dropped as people turned around to look at him, then, seeing he was just another student, resumed their conversations. He found a seat near the back and dropped into it, finally catching his breath.

"What gives?" he said to the kid two seats over. "I thought I was late."

"Dunno," the kid looked up from a magazine and yawned, "but Sturgis is about to violate the twenty-minute rule." McCormick looked at him questioningly. "You know," the kid continued, "full professors get twenty-minutes, associate professors get ten, and if a teaching assistant is two and a half minutes late, I'm outta here."

Just then the front door of the lecture hall opened and in walked the professor in question, apologizing as he approached the podium.

"Car trouble, I am very sorry to have been late. If you don't mind, I'll skip the preliminaries, it's all on this hand-out anyway, and proceed right to the material."

Professor Sturgis set a sheaf of papers on the desk next to the podium and, on top of them, a small, crumpled metal object which only Mark recognized. The class settled back, there was a rustling of notebooks opening launched himself into an overview of the origins of American law.

It was hard for Mark to believe that the frail, bemused man by the side of the road was the same guy that was the commanding presence at the front of this classroom. After the first few minutes he could understand why everyone had hung around, waiting for him. By nine-thirty, as Sturgis was summing up, Mark was heartily sorry he'd have to drop the class. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the awkwardness of this evening's encounter by the side of the road would only be the start.

Having a class taught by a neighbor of Hardcastle's would threaten the carefully erected wall he had placed between his life as an ex-con, all-purpose yardman/gardener, shotgun-riding errand boy, and the Mark McCormick who sat quietly part-way back in the classroom and tried not to do anything that would make him seem out of place. _And Hardcase will find out, too,_ that was the other thought niggling at the back of his mind, not that he was sure why it was such a big secret.

ooooo

Robert Sturgis noticed the young man seated almost at the back of the lecture hall. He had his jacket on, but he hadn't managed to get all the dirt off his hands. He glanced down at the class roster and saw the name among the 'M's. _A very small world indeed. _McCormick had looked surprised to see him there, and now that Sturgis thought about it, he'd been so flustered about the flat, and his near crash, that he hadn't even introduced himself earlier.

And then he was off and running, pulling out threads from Hamurabi's code down through English common law, weaving them together with quotes, and examples, and laying the whole pattern out for them to see. He'd been doing this so long, nearly forty years, that he had no use for notes, and yet, nearly every time he did it, he saw new connections to point out to the uninitiated. He didn't pause until a few minutes before nine. Then he took questions, passed out the course outline, and dismissed the class, apologizing again for the late start.

He usually stayed there for a few minutes after each lecture, to field questions from those who didn't like to raise their hands, but this time he moved up the aisle toward the door where most of the students were already exiting. He caught up to the young man, tapped him on the shoulder, and took him aside while the others flowed past.

"I think the very least I owe you for your assistance tonight is a cup of coffee." Sturgis smiled.

"Well, ah . . ."

It was hard to believe that the slightly flustered young man, looking mildly out of place among the even younger students around him, was the same person who had taken charge of his roadside emergency a few hours ago.

"I'd feel less guilty, having made you late for class on top of everything else; good thing you have an understanding professor."

This drew a smile from McCormick and a brief shrug. "Okay, coffee'd be fine. I don't like to get home too early anyway; makes the judge think I'm dating girls who have to be home by curfew."

They went to a place down the street from the University; upscale, more a professor's hangout than one for students, and therefore quiet enough for ordinary conversation. The waitress put them in a corner booth and took their orders. Sturgis studied the man across the table for a moment, and then came straight out with it.

"You seemed to think I might be a bit judgmental, out there by the side of the road tonight."

"Judgmental? Oh, that I can handle, I get judgmental from Hardcastle all the time . . . It's when they look scared." The young man had a set look to his mouth. Then he flashed another quirky smile. "On the bright side, I've been a tremendous force for increased home-security in our section of Malibu."

The waitress returned with their coffee, and there was a pause as the cups were set down. Then they were left alone again.

"You know, I really enjoyed your lecture tonight." Now the smile looked more genuine.

"I was wondering about that, how you picked this particular class."

"Do you want the real reason, or the _real, _real reason?" McCormick asked.

"Either, or both."

"Well, see, Hardcastle has his Dixieland band over every Tuesday night, you know, 'The Jazzmasters'?"

Sturgis groaned. "Oh my, we've all heard of them, indeed, many of us without leaving our own homes."

"Yes, well, then you know what I mean, and I've kind of got him trained to think of Thursday as 'date night'. I think he's getting a little suspicious about that, though, because a couple of times I couldn't remember who I said I was going out with."

"So you mean to say the judge doesn't know you're enrolled. But why not? I would think he'd approve of this."

"Not if I fall flat on my face."

Sturgis nodded, understandingly. "So you have to pick classes that are offered on Tuesday and Thursday nights. But why a 300-level history course?"

The young man looked a little less forthcoming. "I thought it was something that sounded interesting."

"But if you're worried about failing, why not something easier, introductory survey courses of some sort?"

"Well," the young man was fiddling with the handle of the cup, looking even a little more nervous, "I already took a lot of those—at my _old_ alma mater, U.C.S.Q."

"—S.Q.?" Sturgis' eyebrows went up, questioningly. "Oh . . . you took some of the extension classes. Maggie Givens was teaching there, if I remember right."

"Yeah, she was very good. One of the best they had."

"So you've always had an interest in history?"

The young man looked up from his coffee cup. "Um, no, I just signed up for whatever was being offered. Honestly, if they'd offered basket-weaving I would have taken it." The smile was gone; his voice was quieter, more intense. "I swear, that classroom was the only sane spot in that whole place, the only place where you could sit down for an hour and not have to watch your back."

"I've known many people who picked their majors for less substantive reasons than that." Sturgis said.

"Major? No, I'm just taking a couple classes. I don't have a major."

"Why not?"

"_Professor_, I clean out gutters, I fetch mulch from the garden store."

"Hardcastle also said you know your way around the inside of a racing engine, and, how did he put it? Ah, yes, you have 'a grass-roots grasp of the law'."

McCormick looked puzzled, "You know him, I mean, you talk to him? He talked to you about me?" And then the puzzlement turned to a worried frown. "Oh, no, you cannot tell him I am hanging out over here. You can't. Please."

"Just why would that be so bad? You were worried about failing, but you've taken all these other classes. What's so different now?"

The young man sighed, shoulders slumped. "You just do not understand. He doesn't think of me that way. He talks about 'college kids' like they're something really special. 'They've got their eyes on the future; they're gonna grab the brass ring.' And then there's people like me."

"How many courses did you finish at San Quentin?"

"Eight, no, nine. Givens let me test out of the last one when my parole came up."

"So, that's twenty-seven credit hours. Any other classes?"

"I'd already signed up for some last term, before I got sentenced to gutter maintenance. I had to drop all but one. Then there was some stuff I took back in the seventies. I worked with a guy named Flip Johnson. He was a design genius, but he was self-taught. Anyway, he was always bugging me to take classes. He said it was hard to prove to other people that you knew anything without all the pieces of paper."

"So how many more pieces of paper did you collect back then?"

"Maybe three or four a year, for three years."

"So, basically you're telling me you are a junior, plus or minus a few credit hours. Sounds like it's time you picked a major and got on with it, and if you like this class of mine, you might want to declare for pre-law."

The young man across the table looked stunned, then laughed. "Oh, no, Professor, you had me going there for a minute. Pre-law? Right, now that would be--"

"Would be what? Impossible?"

"I'm almost thirty."

"And in six years you'll be almost thirty-six, no matter what you do. And then you'll have fifty-odd more years to think about why you did or didn't do what you wanted to do."

McCormick shook his head slowly. "No, I am not . . . I cannot . . . I can't."

"You know, when I started teaching here it was right after the war. All these young guys were coming home, only they weren't so young to me then. I was only a year or two older than some of them, and some were even my age, like Milton. He had a couple years of college under his belt from before the war. And here he was, a Captain. He had been in for the duration, had his Silver Star and a Purple Heart, but he didn't talk about any of that. Most of the guys didn't want to talk much about what they'd been through.

"And there I was, smart young professor of history, ink barely dry on my doctoral degree, gone straight through school, 4-F from rheumatic heart disease, facing a room full of guys wearing ruptured ducks, and looking like they'd already seen more than I ever would. The first day, one of them starts giving me a hard time after class, I still remember what the guy looked like, and Hardcastle walks up and takes this fellow aside and says, well, I don't know what he said, but it never happened again.

"So, to show my gratitude, I invited him out for a beer, and after we'd had a few, he told me which islands he had been on, and I told him which universities I had gone through, and then I asked him what he was going to do with his degree when he got out. He laughed and said he was too old for that. He said had a good job as a cop and he liked the work, but he just thought he'd use a little of his G.I. bill money and take a couple of courses, because he thought it would be a good way to meet some girls."

Sturgis paused and took a sip of coffee. He could tell by the look on the young man's face that he was hearing about this for the first time.

"So I asked him what it was that he liked so much about being a cop and he said, let me see if I can get this right, he said, 'Doc, I've been in a lot of places where there wasn't any law and order, just kill or be killed. I'm starting to think laws are the only thing that holds everything together. I like being the guy who does that, who holds it together.'

"So I asked him if it wouldn't be even better to be someone who interprets the law, instead of just enforcing it."

"And he listened to you?"

"Nah, he said something about the discretionary powers of the police and wondered out loud if there were more women enrolled in classes in the English department."

McCormick sat back silently, with a look of amazement.

"And then, about a year later, the department put me in charge of a senior-level seminar called "Topics in the History of American Law", and who should show up at the first class but Milton C. Hardcastle. And what does he tell me? He's going for a double major in history and political science and has declared pre-law."

"What happened in between?"

Sturgis smiled. "Well, I'd like to think it just took a while for my sage advice to sink in." He waved the waitress over and took the bill. "I think we've made it past curfew."

McCormick looked down at his watch with a start. "Oh, geez, he's gonna be up at the crack of dawn with the basketball."

"See you Thursday, Mark."

The young man was already gathering his things and standing up. He froze for a moment, as though he was deciding something, then he nodded once.

He was halfway to the door when he turned back and leaning down, spoke quietly. "But you've got to promise me, Professor, if he ever introduces us, you_ don't_ know me, okay?"

ooooo

"And I'm tellin' ya," Hardcastle grumbled, "there's no such thing as too much guacamole. You should've gotten at least three more."

McCormick picked up another avocado pit and tossed it into the garbage.

"Just how many people did you say go to this little shindig, Judge?"

"The whole neighborhood shows up. They have it every year. It was here, what, four years ago."

"Before my time," McCormick observed.

The judge stopped mashing for a moment and looked up. After almost two years he tended to forget there was a time when McCormick hadn't been around . . . stealing guacamole.

"Don't touch that." He pointed the fork at McCormick emphatically. "It's not ready yet."

"Yeah," the kid made a face, "needs more lemon."

"Just get the truck. I'll be ready in a minute."

He watched McCormick grab the keys and saunter out, grinning. Two years? Sometimes it seemed like ten. But a lot had changed. Even a few months ago the kid might have balked at going to a community event. He wouldn't have done anything obvious, just the usual McCormick smoke-and-mirrors routine, but since being elected captain of the neighborhood watch last winter, even if it was because of his 'criminal experience', he seemed to feel he was more accepted. The kid seemed to have some fairly low standards for feeling accepted.

"Where to, Kemosabe?" McCormick asked as he pulled out of the drive.

"Left, about two miles, then right, Three Palms; it's Bob Sturgis' place this year. You'll like him, great guy. Haven't seen him in a while."

McCormick drove on without a comment.

The place was already crowded with people, lawn chairs, coolers. They'd decided a long time ago to keep this an old-fashioned potluck. Anybody who wanted a white tent and a fancy caterer would just have to go elsewhere. Hardcastle carried his offering to the table, McCormick right behind him with the bags of chips. The judge spotted Bob across the yard and waved.

"There's Sturgis, come on, I'll introduce you." He grabbed McCormick's arm and pointed him in the right direction.

"Mark," Sturgis met them halfway, reaching out to shake the younger man's hand and nodding at Hardcastle, "We've met, what was it Mark, two years ago?"

Hardcastle looked at the younger man, who was shaking Sturgis' hand woodenly with a fixed, polite smile on his face.

"Yes," Sturgis went on, "he found me in a pickle with a flat tire out on the PCH. First day of class, too, and I was running late. I don't know if I ever told you that story, Milt. Fastest tire changer I ever met."

McCormick's smile was more relaxed now. Hardcastle got the impression there was something more to the story but nobody was going to tell him.

The afternoon wore on, Hardcastle chatting with old neighbors. McCormick had drifted off, probably in search of women under the age of thirty. Towards mid-afternoon, when the crowd had thinned, he caught sight of the kid standing with Sturgis over by the garden wall, the older man talking and the younger listening.

Hardcastle smiled. Bob was a good guy, could put anybody at ease, and for once the kid did not seem to be putting on the dog-and-pony-show that he usually did when he had to mingle with 'society' people. Whatever Sturgis was saying, he seemed to have McCormick's undivided attention. Hardcastle resisted the urge to get within eavesdropping distance. Then Sturgis strolled off towards the house leaving the kid standing there, looking thoughtful.

ooooo

"Remind me never to rob a bank with you, Professor." McCormick smiled.

"Oh, you thought I had 'blown the gaff,' eh?"

"Something like that. I still think I'm going to get grilled when I get home. Next time, stick to the plan. The simplest story is always the best."

Sturgis sighed. "So you still haven't told him? I thought that 'A' I gave you in Origins of American Law might have gotten you over the hump."

McCormick scanned the lawn, caught site of the judge a good distance away, talking with a blue-haired lady in Bermuda shorts. He turned back to Sturgis.

"You know, it's like when someone sends you a letter and you don't get around to answering it right away, and then, eventually, it becomes an embarrassment, it's too late, and you don't know what to do about it."

"Just tell him."

McCormick hesitated, looking over in the judge's direction again.

"I'm not who he thinks I am. Maybe I never was."

"You think he won't like who you've become? Somehow I doubt that."

"Well," McCormick flashed a wry, sad smile, "at the very least I'm going to be overqualified to be a yardman. I'll be graduating at the end of next term."

"You know, if you hadn't shown up here today, I was planning on giving you a call." Sturgis was studying the younger man closely. "I'm offering a senior seminar, Topics in the History of American Law, next term. We'll have guest lecturers--"

"Tuesday and Thursday nights?"

"Eight to nine-thirty. It's a chance to meet some of the professors from the School of Law. You're applying there, aren't you?"

McCormick nodded, one eye on Hardcastle, who looked like he was thinking of wandering over and then changed his mind.

"Wait here a minute, there's something I've been wanting to give you," Sturgis said, and walked away towards the house. Almost as soon as he was gone, Hardcastle walked up.

"Told ya you'd like him. I've known him for years. Heck of a guy." Hardcastle looked the kid over. McCormick seemed preoccupied, distant. "You okay? I tell you, ya shouldn't eat mayonnaise at these things. Wanna go home?"

"Yeah," McCormick shrugged, "soon."

Sturgis was coming out of the house towards them, holding something in his right hand.

"There it is, Mark. I had it lying on my desk for a while. For a caltrop, it makes a pretty good ersatz paperweight."

He held out the twisted but still recognizable utensil, with its tines going in two directions. Mark took it from him.

"What is that supposed to be?" Hardcastle asked.

"Aw, come on, Judge," McCormick smiled mysteriously, "you've never heard of a fork in the road?"


End file.
